Listen To Me (Rizzoli & Isles #13)(4)

And last night, a killer came for the wife.

Jane circled to the front door, where a stethoscope lay coiled on the floor, spattered with blood.

Here is where the attack starts.

Was the killer already waiting for her as she walked through her door last night? Or was he surprised when he heard the key in the lock and panicked when he realized he was about to be discovered?

The first blow doesn’t kill her. She’s still alive. Still conscious.

Jane followed the trail of blood smeared along the floor, marking the victim’s desperate attempt to escape her attacker. It led from the front door, across the living room, and past the softly burbling aquarium.

And here is where it ends, she thought, gazing down at the body.

Sofia Suarez lay on her side on the tiled floor, her legs curled up like an infant still in the womb. She was dressed in her blue nurse’s scrubs and a hospital ID was still attached to her shirt: S. Suarez, RN. A halo of blood surrounded her crushed skull, and her face was now shattered beyond recognition. A sad remnant of the face that had beamed so joyfully in the wedding photo.

“I see an outline of footwear here, in this splatter,” said Maura. “And there’s a partial tread mark over there.”

Jane crouched to study the footwear impression. “Looks like some kind of boot. Men’s size seven or eight?” Jane turned toward the front door. “Her stethoscope’s near the door. She’s attacked soon after she walks into the house. Manages to crawl away until this point. Curls up into this fetal position, maybe trying to protect herself, protect her head. And he hits her again.”

“Have you found the weapon?”

“No. What should we be looking for?”

Maura knelt beside the body and with her gloved hand gently parted the dead woman’s hair to expose the scalp. “These wounds are well-defined. Circular. I think you’re looking for a flat-head hammer.”

“We haven’t found any hammer. Bloody or otherwise.”

Jane’s partner, Barry Frost, emerged from the back bedroom. His usually pale face was an alarming shade of sunburned scarlet, a consequence of his hatless trip to the beach yesterday. It made Jane wince just to look at him. “I didn’t find her purse or her cell phone,” he said. “But I did find this. It was plugged into the bedroom socket.” He held up a charging cord. “Looks like it’s for an Apple laptop.”

“Where’s the laptop?” said Jane.

“Not here.”

“You sure?”

“You want to look for yourself?” It was an uncharacteristically cranky response from Frost, but maybe she’d asked for it. And that sunburn must be bothering him.

She had already walked through the house earlier, and now she walked it again, her shoe covers whishing across the floor. She glanced into the spare room, where the bed was covered with folded laundry and linens. Next came the bathroom, its under-sink cabinet overflowing with the usual face creams and ointments that promised, but never delivered, eternal youth. In the medicine cabinet were bottles of pills for hypertension and allergies as well as a prescription bottle of hydrocodone, six months expired. Nothing in the bathroom looked disturbed, which bothered Jane. The medicine cabinet was one of the first places a burglar normally raided, and hydrocodone would be a prize worth snatching.

Jane continued to the main bedroom where she saw, on the dresser, another framed photo of Sofia and her husband in happier times. Alive times. They were standing arm in arm on a beach, and the years since their wedding photo had added both wrinkles and pounds. Their waists were thicker, their laugh lines deeper. She opened the closet and saw that, along with Sofia’s clothes, Tony’s jackets and slacks were still hanging. How painful it must have been for her to open this closet every morning to see her dead husband’s clothes. Or was it a comfort, being able to touch the fabric he’d worn, to inhale his scent?

Jane closed the closet door. Frost was right: If Sofia did own an Apple laptop, it was not in this house.

She went into the kitchen, where the countertop held sacks of masa and plastic bags filled with dried corn husks. The kitchen was otherwise uncluttered, the surfaces wiped clean. Sofia was a nurse; perhaps it was second nature for her to wipe down and sterilize surfaces. Jane opened the pantry cabinet and saw shelves filled with unfamiliar condiments and sauces. She imagined Sofia pushing her grocery cart down the aisles, planning the meals she would cook for herself. The woman lived alone and probably dined alone, and based on her extravagantly stocked spice cabinet, she must have drawn comfort from cooking. It was yet another piece of the puzzle that was Sofia Suarez, a woman who loved to cook and knit. A woman who missed her dead husband so much she kept his clothes in the closet and a shrine to him in the living room. A woman who loved romance novels and her goldfish. A woman who lived alone but certainly did not die alone. Someone had stood over her, holding the instrument of her death. Someone had watched her take her last breaths.

She looked down at the broken glass from the shattered window in the kitchen door, the point of entry. The intruder had smashed the glass in the doorframe, reached in, and slid open the bolt. She stepped out into the side yard, a stark strip of gravel with one empty trash can and a few weeds popping out. There were more shards out here, but the gravel preserved no footprints, and the gate had a simple latch, easily lifted from the outside. No security cameras, no alarm system. Sofia must have felt safe in this neighborhood.